‘Ambrose did not mean to offend you, Nick,’ said Anne when she heard the defensive note in his voice. ‘He does not want to impugn your profession in any way. This is not a complaint about Westfield’s Men or about any of the other companies. It relates only to the Chapel Children.’
‘And the villain in charge of them,’ said Robinson.
‘Cyril Fulbeck?’
‘He is the Master there, but the deadly spider who has caught my son in his web is called Raphael Parsons.’
‘Why so?’
‘Read Philip’s letters and you would understand. He makes my son’s life a misery. Raphael Parsons is a monster.’
Nicholas was still mystified. ‘Why bring this problem to me? I can offer you little beyond sympathy.’
‘We came for advice, sir,’ said Robinson.
‘Then take your story to a shrewd lawyer. Get a hearing for the case in the courts. Pursue it all the way to the Star Chamber, if need be. You have good cause.’
‘We hoped there might be a quicker way,’ said Anne.
‘Quicker?’
‘And less costly,’ added Robinson. ‘Lawyers’ fees would eat hungrily through my purse.’
‘It might take months to reach the Star Chamber,’ said Anne. ‘We need someone who can go to the Chapel Royal and speak directly to this ogre called Raphael Parsons.’
‘His father is the proper person to do that.’
‘I have tried,’ said Robinson angrily, ‘but they will not even hear me. Besides, I could not trust myself to be in Parsons’s company and not throttle the life out of him with my bare hands.’ He opened his palms to show thick and powerful fingers. ‘That would gladden me but deprive Philip of a father. He has already lost his mother and could not bear to see me hanged upon the gallows.’
Everything about the man unsettled Nicholas and he wanted no part in the affairs of his family, especially now that he realised Robinson was widowed and in need of a stepmother for his hapless child. But Anne Hendrik looked at him with such trust and pleading that the book holder found it hard to refuse. He shrugged his shoulders.
‘I have little hope of succeeding where you failed.’
‘But you’ll go?’ begged Robinson.
‘I have heard stories about Raphael Parsons, it is true, but I do not know the man.’
‘He is the Devil Incarnate!’
‘Philip must be rescued from his clutches,’ said Anne.
‘I will pay all I can,’ promised her companion.
‘I want no money,’ said Nicholas. ‘Furnish me with more detail and I will look into it. That is all I can promise. One thing I can assure you, Master Robinson. Chapel Children are not the wayward sinners you imagine. We have a young man in the company, one James Ingram, who learned to sing, dance and act with the Chapel Children in the old Blackfriars playhouse. A more personable fellow you could not hope to encounter. I’ll see what James can tell me of Raphael Parsons.’
‘Let my son’s letters speak their full as well,’ insisted Robinson, pulling a bundle from his pocket and handing it over. ‘I would like them back when you have done with them.’
‘Linger a while and you shall have them anon.’
‘Yes,’ said Anne, rising to her feet. ‘Nick will read and absorb them in no time. Wait for me outside, Ambrose, and I will join you in a moment.’
‘I will,’ he said, getting up. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Save your gratitude until I have earned it.’
‘Listening to my tale was a kindness in itself.’
Ambrose Robinson walked heavily to the door and let himself out. Nicholas relaxed slightly and looked up at Anne. She put a hand on his shoulder and smiled.
‘How are you?’ he asked.
‘Much as ever, Nick. And you?’
‘I am kept as busy as usual here.’
‘You thrive on work.’ Her face puckered. ‘I am sorry to burden you with this errand but it means so much to Ambrose. He is quite distracted with worry. You were the only person we could turn to, Nick.’
‘We?’
‘Ambrose has been kind to me. I owe him this favour. Do not blame me too much. Philip Robinson is suffering dreadfully, as you will see from his letters, and my heart goes out to him. But he is not the only reason I came here today.’
‘What else brought you here?’
Anne bent over to kiss him softly on the lips.
‘You,’ she said.
Then she let herself out of the room.
Chapter Three
Omens for The Misfortunes of Marriage were not propitious. The day began with torrential rain. It soaked the stage, blew into the galleries and turned the yard of the Queen’s Head into a quagmire. Emotional tempest soon followed. Barnaby Gill awoke with a blazing headache, announced that he was too ill to move, and refused to appear in the play which he saw as responsible for his condition. Lawrence Firethorn experienced his own marital misfortune. Incautious enough to retain a letter from a female admirer because it flattered his vanity, he opened his eyes that morning to find his wife reading the telltale missive before turning on him like a berserk she-tiger.
Then there was Jonas Applegarth. Quiescent after the stern warning from Nicholas Bracewell, he worked through the night on emendations and additions which he wanted inserted into his play, and compiled a list of notes for individual actors whose performances, he felt on mature reflection, needed radical improvement if his work were to be given any hope of success. When his wife rose from her slumber and found him still poring over the foul papers of his play, Applegarth was like a powder keg in search of an excuse to explode. The sight of the downpour threatened to ignite rather than dampen.
Nicholas Bracewell looked out from his lodging to see Thames Street being turned into a replica of the river whose name it bore. Horses churned up the mud, waggon wheels dispersed it with indiscriminate force, and sodden figures waded to and fro with all the speed that they could muster. Nicholas gave a sigh of resignation. Innyard theatre was at the mercy of the elements. In view of the religious satire which propelled The Misfortunes of Marriage, he was bound to wonder if the Almighty was inflicting the storm by way of a criticism of the play.
Though the performance dominated his thoughts, there was another vexation at the back of his mind. Anne Hendrik’s request for help left him in a state of ambivalence. Willing to assist her in any way, he felt no such obligation towards Ambrose Robinson and still smarted at the memory of the man’s unconcealed affection towards the woman whom Nicholas still loved deeply. It worried him that Anne’s relationship with the Southwark butcher was so close that he felt able to entrust such a personal matter to her. Philip Robinson’s letters were indeed heart-breaking in their description of the boy’s ordeal, but Nicholas could not see why Anne Hendrik should be involved in his rescue, still less he himself.
Concentrating on the afternoon’s performance, he braced himself for a tense morning at the Queen’s Head and left his lodging. He had splashed his way no more than twenty yards along Thames Street when a small, bustling figure cannoned into him and bounced off. With his head bent forward and his cloak all but hiding him, Caleb Hay had not even seen his approaching neighbour.
‘A thousand apologies, Master Bracewell!’
‘The fault was as much mine,’ said Nicholas.
‘A deluge such as this makes the most nimble of us blind and clumsy. By the end of the day, we may need to return to our houses by boat.’
‘The storm may yet blow over.’
Caleb Hay grinned. ‘I admire your optimism but I do not share it. Nor can I offer you any sympathy with a clear conscience. If you serve such a filthy profession, you must expect the heavens to wash it for you out of sheer disgust.’
‘We must agree to differ,’ said Nicholas tolerantly.
‘You are too honest a man for the world you serve.’